


Know You Better Now

by Rinielle



Series: Red [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Divergence, M/M, stupid boys not being stupid for once and kissing and stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:25:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinielle/pseuds/Rinielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras reflects on Grantaire's failure at the Barriere du Maine and his words from the night before. Coming to a realisation he pays him a visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Know You Better Now

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to 'I'd Lie' as requested anonymously on Tumblr. I hope the length and content makes up for my being a hopeless writer who takes forever to do anything. Following on with the Taylor Swift theme =D.

_All I knew this morning when I woke_  
 _Is I know something now, know something now I didn't before._  
 _And all I've seen since eighteen hours ago_  
 _Is green eyes and freckles and your smile_

_“You don’t believe in everything,”  
“I believe in you,”_

The words echo across his mind all evening, night, and into the early hours of the morning until he can take it no longer and flees his own chambers for Paris’ own brand of fresh air.

_“I believe in you,”_

Four little words. It’s not like he hasn’t heard them before. Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Jehan… all of their band have expressed their belief in him before; multiple times even, and he has reciprocated. They none of them could have come so far – revolution so close now that he can almost taste gunpowder on the air as he walks steadily along the Seine – they could not have gotten to where they are without believing in one another, without trusting each other. So yes, he has heard the words before… but to hear them from Grantaire…

Grantaire, who calls his only certainty his full bottle. Grantaire, who speaks readily of spring and poetry and small pleasures whilst everyone else speaks words of treason.

Grantaire, who has failed them again if the scene at the Barriere du Maine is to be believed.

Grantaire, who hates him. Who is _supposed_ to hate him. Because they truly are so close now - so close to revolution - and that is easier. It is easier to think there is nothing, could never be anything, between them. Easier not to know that it’s possible. It is easier to walk into the Musain each evening, easier to walk away again each night and easier to walk into the fire of the dawn.

Grantaire. On whom his thoughts had dwelled all evening. Thoughts of his eyes, of the freckles across his nose, drawn out by the summer sun. His smile.

Before now, each time such thoughts had strayed across his mind he could toss them aside. Ridiculous. Pointless. Unnecessary. Not only because he would almost certainly not see another autumn, but because where there is no chance of reciprocation, there is no reason to let the mind engage in wishful thinking. And yet…

Grantaire had said he believed in him.

Not in the revolution, not in the people of Paris, not in anything they hoped to achieve – had he not proven that when he failed to follow through in his mission, nay, he had already proven it when he claimed it all as ‘twaddle’ – not in their cause, but in him alone. The thought warms him more than he would like it too, given what he had seen the night before. He should feel angry, frustrated, at the very least he should be reacting with unsurprised resignation. Yet his mind, when it recalls their conversation on the night before, does not recall the grand statements or assurances, all it can find to focus on is the look in bright green eyes as he met Enjolras’ steadily for the first time he can remember, how his lips had formed those four words, sincerity in every syllable, and the way his warm breath had ghosted across his neck after returning in that red waistcoat. He had whispered something then too… he could not quite remember what.

He doesn’t look up for some time, allowing his feet to take him where they will; he knows this city’s streets like he knows his own hand. It is not until he is very nearly run down by a passing gamin -quickly followed by an angry looking shop keeper - that he even realises that his feet have taken him to Grantaire’s door.

He can see the little window box from where he stands.

He stands staring at it until he begins to earn himself strange looks from those around him. An old man stops beside him, glancing up at the window box and laughs lightly.

“You’d serve yourself better by going inside and telling her how you feel my boy,” he says wisely, clapping a hand to Enjolras’ shoulder, “We live in strange times, the old romance of serenading is dead. Women prefer a more direct approach these days,” and he cannot be familiar with the building or its tenants.

“I beg your pardon?” Enjolras asks, but the man simply winks at him and moves away and into the bakery across the street, but his words – with some minor corrections – stick with him.

There could be no harm in going inside to speak with Grantaire. Under the guise of checking his progress. Grantaire does not know that he was seen after all… it might even be helpful to hear him make up some tale. The lie might help to break whatever effect his statement of belief has had upon Enjolras.

Nodding to himself he heads in, catching in the corner of his eye the same old man from before smiling at him. He wonders if he would smile if he knew the occupant of the room with the flowers in the window was no young and blushing girl.

He half expects Grantaire not to open the door… there are nights he doesn’t make it home, passed out upon a table, or if he can wrangle it, upon the floor or spare mattress of a friend. However, mere moments after knocking Enjolras can hear the telltale sounds of life from within the small apartment, and only a few seconds later the door cracks open to reveal Grantaire himself. His face changes from vague annoyance to shock within the space of a moment, and he opens the door wider.

“Enjolras…” is all he says, staring at him as though he might be an apparition, eyes wide and unblinking.

“Good day Grantaire,” greets Enjolras stiffly, having for once, no real idea of what to say.

“I…” Grantaire pauses, looking into his room and then back at Enjolras, seemingly surprised to find him still standing there, “I would not know. I am afraid I tend to be rather a late riser. A side effect to my habits you understand,” is what he settles on.

“I had hoped to speak with you,” Enjolras replies. Grantaire’s surprise increases, but he steps to one side, holding the door wide enough to allow Enjolras through. He bows his head in thanks and steps inside. The small room is cluttered, a desk in one corner strewn with papers, cupboards for food and its preparation along one wall, a table and two chairs beside it, a line of full book shelves across the other, broken up only by another door which must lead to the bed chamber.

“I must confess I am surprised to find you here, I did not realise you knew where I lived. I suppose Joly or Bossuet has given the game away?” Grantaire questions as he closes the door behind him.

Enjolras fully intends to nod, as he normally would. Better to know too little than too much, his usual mantra in cases like this; but he finds himself shaking his head instead.

“You do not remember perhaps,” he says, “I once assisted Bahorel in ensuring you were returned safely home one evening,”

“You?”

“I,”

There is the ghost of a strange sort of happiness in Grantaire’s eyes that suddenly makes Enjolras feel the same twinge of guilt he gets when he has been cruel to the point that Grantaire falls silent. Could he have misread the situation so greatly for so long? To see the tiniest expression of pleasure, purely from knowing he had once shown Grantaire a kindness… it strikes him. Never has he felt so terrible.

“Then I must offer a late expression of thanks to you, you needn’t have put yourself out, I am sure I would have done just as well left where I was,”

“Don’t be absurd,” snaps Enjolras, wincing a moment later at the, practised to the point of automatic, harshness in his voice. Grantaire winces too. Enjolras tries again, softer, “I only mean, I would not leave anyone in such a state if it is in my power to lift them out of it,”

A sudden smile tugs at Grantaire’s lips and the image of it sears itself so quickly into Enjolras mind that he almost forgets to let his breath go. He coughs, to cover up the stutter, and continues, “But I am not here to collect old debts,” he says.

“Indeed, this is a business call I believe, you wish to hear of my progress perhaps?” he sits himself upon a chair at the table, gesturing towards the other, “You have wasted a journey I am afraid. I am as ever, to appear a disappointment to you,”

The immediate honesty is another strike inside Enjolras head, and he sinks heavily down onto the seat, expression set to be cool and unresponsive.

“Oh?” he questions.

“Indeed, I went along to the Barriere du Maine as per your request and for several glorious minutes I gave my very best performance – _you_ might even have been proud of me for a moment – but I fear I overestimated myself, and it all came to naught, none amongst the gathering cared for my nonsense. One man offered me a drink if I would be quiet, and I found the request was not unreasonable. Sadly I find that I have none of _your_ presence, even if I can do a grand impression of your words. I was many drinks in before I knew what had happened, and I am about sure I lost my favourite watch to a game of dominos… and so you see, you may rest easy that your predictions of me were indeed correct,”

“I did not want you to fail,” says Enjolras, because it is the truth, and Grantaire levels him with an inscrutable expression.

“No I suppose it is no good to you to be right in this instance,” he replies cautiously, folding his hands upon the table. “Yet you are taking this surprisingly well, I half feared I would be thrown from your side immediately, you have every reason to send me away,”

“I confess to disappointment,”

“But not to surprise,” says Grantaire smiling somewhat sadly, and Enjolras should not feel sad for him in return. Grantaire had failed them, had outwardly admitted to that failure. He had every right to be angry with him. He half wishes that Grantaire had lied to him; had given him an excuse to be furious with him. This quiet confession, and soft acceptance of his fate, it tugs at Enjolras in a way that is all too familiar.

“I have never given you any reason to think I could expect anything from you, have I?” he asks, somewhat afraid to hear the truth in Grantaire’s answer.

“What reason have I given you to put faith in me?” he replies and Enjolras swallows, because Grantaire has given him plenty of reasons, his intelligence and talents have long been known to Enjolras. The disappointment of his failure is even more potent when he thinks of them. Disappointment, not because the task was difficult and Grantaire has proven himself not up to it but rather because he knows, he knows that Grantaire is capable, has seen it, and last night something like hope had sprung up inside him, that at last he would turn that charisma and intelligence to something important… if not for the cause, then for him.

_“I believe in you,”_

“Why did you offer your services in the first place?” he asks, curious, because he needs to understand.

Grantaire observes him, equally curious, for a few moments before a fake grin spreads across his face, “Ah,” he says, “Why does a drunk do anything? I was carried away in the moment. Your fervour was infectious.”

Enjolras remains silent, and narrows his eyes, watching as the grin slowly slips away. He’s glad to see it go; it holds no candle to the real thing.

Grantaire gives a short breathy laugh and hangs his head under the scrutiny.

“What do you want of me Enjolras? You asked for my report, I have none. Do you mean to punish me with grave silence now? Am I to turn to stone under the cold gaze of disappointment?”

“I want…” so many things, he pauses, “I simply want to know if you truly intended to do this task for me, or whether it was a mere whim of yours, to pass the time,”

“I thought my original intentions were clear,” replies Grantaire, looking ever more wary as the seconds tick by, “I had every good intention to complete your task. I lacked the necessary enthusiasm. My words rang false.”

“You told us…”

“I told you I could quote all manner of text and turn a phrase like a true orator and talk for hours at a time and I did not lie. You must understand I did not, would not, lie to you about that. What I forgot, as I lauded my skills for the world to hear, is that a man who does not truly believe what he is saying, cannot make another believe it either.”

“You said you believed…”

“I believe in _you_!” Grantaire’s hand comes down hard on the table, a wild, almost desperate look in his eyes, though he must note that Enjolras flinches, because a moment later he draws his hand sharply back towards his body, apology written all over his face. He cannot know that it is the repetition of the words from the night before that caused the involuntary motion and not what he must now perceive as an aggressive movement on his part.

“Just you,” he adds quietly and laughs bitterly for a moment, “Ask me now to return and speak of you alone, and perhaps I could bring you followers to rival the National Guard itself,”

Enjolras’ hand clenches at his side. He wishes he had never come, had simply continued walking, had tried to forget the words had ever been said. Perhaps they could have been a dream, a passing fantasy; perhaps he could have misheard them with the commotion of the café. They had been said so softly, so quietly. They might not have been said at all.

They are all too real now, and he understands at last. Had he ever truly believed that Grantaire must hate him? It made so little sense when he thought about it now, staring into sincere eyes that begged him to understand where his loyalty lay, where even perhaps his heart lay; what else could those words mean? And he has treated him so harshly, despite his own feelings – perhaps even because of them – he has made him almost fearful of him.

The way he is sitting far back in his chair, limbs carefully tucked in, shoulders hunched, expression careful, he never sits this way with Joly and Bossuet when he sees them eating breakfast together, nor whilst he is playing cards with Bahorel and Feuilly. He is open and relaxed and smiling as he converses with Jehan or Courfeyrac. Even leans in to converse with Combeferre. It is not hatred or aversion that had caused him to act differently with Enjolras… but the very opposite.

He has known it, he thinks. Now that he has confirmation it is impossible to continue denying it, and yet he is reluctant to let it go; it is – was – his last line of defence.

“My apologies,” says Grantaire, cutting through the silence, “I did not wish to make you uncomfortable… it was the very furthest thing from my mind,”

Enjolras wonders what his face looks like, he feels as though he has been knocked over and thrown to the floor but he sits still in his chair, unsure what his expression is. He tries to school it into something indifferent, but can’t quite remember how. He wants to say something, anything; assure him he is not uncomfortable, and then take his leave. For once in his life he cannot find words.

Grantaire begins to fidget slightly in his seat, apparently equally at a loss for how to proceed from here. He apparently settles on standing, and making a motion as if to show Enjolras out.

“Why?” comes out of Enjolras’ mouth before he has time to realise that he was even wondering it, and Grantaire looks back at him in confusion.

“Why?” he queries back.

“You do not believe in the revolution, you do not believe in the people, you love your friends it’s true but… to single me out… when I fight for all these things you do not care for…”

“I never said I do not _care_ , Enjolras,” Grantaire says sadly, gazing at him with such sudden softness that it takes him aback, “Perhaps I care more than I would like. But I have lived through many changes that have in the end brought no change at all. I have seen a King rise and fall and be replaced with another King – so have you for that matter – I have also seen smaller battles fought and lost, women who leave abusive men only to be abused by the rest of the world instead, I left my breakfast unguarded for a street urchin just last week so that he might have a full meal – they are so prideful you see, they won’t accept what they believe is charity – and found the same boy not two days later frozen to death in the street. My own oldest sister, swept out of her station in life by a rich gentlemen. I never saw her again, but we received word from Paris almost a year later that she had been found and was ill. I came myself, but it was too late, the wretch had abandoned her, destitute and with nothing to recommend her she had turned to the only trade available for such women to pay her way home. And there is the story of how I came to Paris myself, and each day brings another story just like these. From the individual tragedy to the broken skirmishes to the successful revolution that in the brought us nothing but another king and yet more misery. So you are right, I do not believe your revolution will be the grand and beautiful new beginning that you and our friends do… but… you believe it, you believe with a full heart and with fierce determination, and that is a wonderful thing in itself. It makes this city, this world bearable to know that there is a man like you alive in it. That is what I believe in. That _you_ will not be dimmed, by failure, or by success,”

He is aware of moments at a time without fully realising what they mean or what they are leading to.  He is aware of standing suddenly, aware of a flash of guilt as Grantaire jerks back – does he believe he would strike him? – he is aware of crossing the steps between them and of reaching his hands up to gently grip the back and base of Grantaire’s neck. He barely even realises that he means to kiss him until the half second before their lips meet.

It happens so fast, and it’s awkward, mostly because Grantaire is stiff and unresponsive throughout , but Enjolras reasons as he pulls away again, if he was barely aware of what he was doing as he did it he can hardly expect Grantaire to be ahead of him. He can’t even be sure why he did it, at that precise moment, but the depth of Grantaire’s belief in him, despite everything he has seen – far more than Enjolras had ever known – strikes him to the bone.

“I had no idea,” he says quietly.

“Does… does it shake your own convictions?” Grantaire manages to croak out, still staring down at him in utter disbelief, the slightest hint of fear behind his eyes, and Enjolras shakes his head with determination.

“It makes them stronger,” he says with force, “I cannot stand by and allow the world to continue as it is. We _will_ rouse the people, we will succeed where others have failed, and create a lasting change. One that sees to it that such atrocities can never occur again.”

Something shifts in Grantaire’s expression, and Enjolras cannot tell if he is more relieved or terrified.

“Will you…” he has never been more afraid to ask this question of anyone, “Will you stand with us?”

Grantaire smiles, truly smiles, and the sun has come out.

“You honestly believe I would be anywhere else but by your side?”

“It will come to a fight sooner rather than later, it is likely that I will not survive… that you would not if you were beside me?”

“I understand, and have understood, better than you I think. There are not many good reasons to die, but I think I would be willing to die with you,”

Enjolras surges forwards to kiss him again, pleased to find him more responsive this time. He cherishes each precious second, the way Grantaire’s lips move against his own, the feel of days old stubble against his own clean shaven skin, and the hand that curls softly around his hip drawing him in.

“That is the stupidest reason I have ever heard,” he says, almost breathless as he pulls back.

“It is the only one I have. Besides I am sure I have said far stupider things,” replies Grantaire, disbelief still present in his gaze, mixing with awe shining in his eyes as he stares into Enjolras’ face, “They have never been met with quite this reaction,” he adds.

“We were always around our friends, and I never before had reason to believe such a reaction would be welcomed,”

“And what did you believe I would do.”Grantaire exclaims with a delirious laugh, “Fight you off? Draw a pistol? Would we duel ourselves, or would I elect a champion to fight for my honour? Perhaps Bahorel, for he is always ready for a fight. Joly is too gentle a soul, but I think I could convince Bossuet to stand up for me; though sadly it is more than likely he would sneeze at the most inopportune moment and miss. Feuilly I know would never oppose you _or_ I. Combeferre and Courfeyrac of course would stand behind _you_ , and though I believe little Jehan bests you all when it comes to aim, he has a poet’s heart, and I think perhaps he would have rooted for you too.”

“You talk too much. I believed that you hated me,”

Grantaire doesn’t speak for a moment, “I could never,” he says eventually, gently, one hand reaching up to brush locks of golden hair that have fallen from their tie.

“What would you have done?” Enjolras asks, returning the gesture and feeling desperately unsure of himself even now. It is an unwelcome feeling.

“Before or after I had been assured you were not drunk? And I was not hallucinating?”

Despite the joke, there is some truth behind his questions, and Enjolras pushes his own uncertainties aside to press his hands either side of Grantaire’s face and draw him down into a third, more gentle, more fleeting kiss.

“I am not,” he promises quietly, “You are not.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire’s voice drops to a whisper, almost a sigh, and the grip he has on Enjolras’ hip tightens ever so slightly, as if reassuring himself that he is really there. It occurs to Enjolras that he has almost never heard Grantaire pronounce his name, in all the years of their acquaintance he cannot conjure a single certain event. The sound of it now, quiet, low, almost reverent from Grantaire’s lips affects him more than he would ever have predicted and his own lips are parted already when Grantaire finally takes the initiative himself; pressing forward with such sudden urgency that it sends them both crashing backwards.

By some miracle they miss the jutting edges of tables and chairs, too wrapped up in lips and teeth and tongues and grasping hands to truly appreciate their direction. In the end, the wall prevents them moving any further as Enjolras’ back hits it, and provides an excellent excuse to press closer, to touch, to feel more. Strong hands and arms find their way under his thighs, lifting, wrapping them around hips to hold himself up. As Grantaire’s mouth moves away to press open mouthed kisses down his neck to his collar bone, their hips roll forwards at the same moment drawing a long low groan from Enjolras throat. A warmth, a fire seems to spread through his body, heart racing, skin burning wherever hands or lips brush against it. It’s something like the rush of standing at the head of a crowd – it’s all he can compare it to – infused with fury and passion, but more. More heated, more focussed, more intimate. One hand grips at ink black curls, the other presses between their bodies, tugging at clothes. They kiss again, hot, wet and desperate. Even as his fingers finally achieve their goal and slip beneath cloth to feel a light brush of hair and skin Grantaire groans and pulls back.

“God if this is a dream, let me die now so I might never wake again,”

“Sshh,” Enjolras assures, pressing softer kisses across his forehead, cheek, nose and finally lips, “We are finally both awake, and there is no need to die for some time yet,”

* * *

 

As they lie side by side some time later, something at the back of Enjolras’ mind tries to remind him that this cannot last. That soon he will have to leave this bed, and the warmth of Grantaire’s arms, and return to his duty. The revolution will come, they will be there, and win or lose in the end, it is likely that one or both of them could fall; they have days, weeks at the most perhaps. A stronger something insists that with so little time, what better reason to savour every moment whilst he can. He thinks of the lost moments, as Grantaire shifts slightly beside him to bury his face in the space between his neck and shoulders, thinks of all the things he hadn’t known until this very morning. Thinks of what might have been, had he known earlier, had he taken a moment to allow himself to see it.

Everything and nothing has changed in a moment, and he barely has the time now to understand it, to appreciate it.

“You are thinking too much,” is whispered softly, and a kiss is pressed just below his ear.

He lets out a single sigh, shifting to turn around and gaze at his… his Grantaire.

“Why did you lie about your birthday?” he asks, because he can, because he can ask anything.

Grantaire looks taken aback, and it seems to take him several seconds to find his voice, “How did…”

“I know you better than you think,” replies Enjolras, “You were not the only one of us longing from afar,”

“Clearly,” he smiles, “And the first thing to come to mind?”

“It is something I do not know about you,” says Enjolras, “I want to know you,” he adds, pressing a kiss to Grantaire’s cheek, “Completely,”

Grantaire laughs, leaning to capture his lips for a moment, pulling back with an expression to suggest he could never tire of doing so. “Well,” he says, quietly, “I suppose we still have some time to get to know each other,”

**Author's Note:**

> I do not smut... but please fill in the gaps yourselves ;D.


End file.
